


Since the Gates of Eden

by Brynncognito



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Language, Mutual Pining, Other, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 07:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/pseuds/Brynncognito
Summary: You see, the thing was, Aziraphale hadn’t meant to spend thousands of years wistfully wishing and hoping for something he was certain couldn’t ever possibly happen.Or, two 6,000-year-old idiots finally realize they're in love with each other.





	Since the Gates of Eden

You see, the thing was, Aziraphale hadn’t  _ meant _ to spend thousands of years wistfully wishing and hoping for something he was certain couldn’t ever possibly happen. In his defense, the first thousand years or so had been spent oblivious to his own feelings. Those first few centuries, he’d been particularly adamant that he and Crowley weren’t even  _ friends _ , weren’t anything more than adversaries who enjoyed thwarting one another with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, but  _ still _ .

So, 400 years, give or take, just to allow the  _ possibility _ that  _ maybe _ theirs was more of a  _ friendly _ rivalry than a truly adversarial relationship. Still enemies, to some extent at least, with just a bit more playful banter than most of either of their respective sides got up to. And then,  _ alright, fine _ , maybe they weren’t really  _ enemies _ after all. They’d spent far too many years rubbing shoulders to retain any genuine animosity. 

After that, Aziraphale had a solid 600 years of unadulterated  _ denial _ . As an angel, he happened to be rather good at denial. Angels had to resist temptation all the time, after all, lest they Fall. And while being  _ friendly _ with a demon was one thing, Aziraphale couldn’t even  _ begin _ to allow himself to contemplate to even the slightest degree that there was, just possibly,  _ something _ not-quite-platonic about his feelings toward Crowley. All in all, he was certain it was understandable that he’d spent so long in denial.

Eventually, as one does, Aziraphale gradually became  _ aware _ of a change in his feelings. What had been general fondness had drifted over time like a tectonic plate, infinitesimally shifting into something  _ warmer _ , something deeper, something that hooked its tendrils into his heart like an anchor and refused to let go. Until, of course, it couldn’t be denied any longer.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .” He was absolutely, utterly, completely arse over teakettle for the demon Crowley. And he had no bloody clue what to do about it.

* * *

Demons weren’t, in a general sense, the sort to fall in  _ love _ of any kind. Occasionally they might feel a rough-’n-tumble sort of camaraderie for one another (inevitably short-lived), and they  _ might _ even grow fond of a particular human as one might a pet.

But  _ love?  _ Particularly  _ romantic _ love? Utterly unheard of.

So perhaps Crowley could be forgiven for not recognizing what drew him to Aziraphale from the moment they stood atop the wall at the gates of Eden. Oh, he’d _liked_ the angel from the moment he’d admitted to giving his bloody flaming sword away-- and what an _utterly_ ridiculous, absolutely _charming_ thing for him to do, at that. _Love_ , though? Absolute tosh.

  
Sure, Crowley never seemed to want to spend any time with anyone other than Aziraphale (and a handful of decent humans, here and there), but surely that was only because _his_ lot was absolutely wretched. _Demons_ , couldn’t trust the bastards as far as you could throw ‘em, or even half as far. So _yeah_ , of course he preferred the angel to _them_. And it only made sense he’d grow a bit comfy with him. They’d been ‘round together for _hundreds_ of years after all, longer than he’d spent time with any particular human, and _far_ longer than he wanted to spend with any of the wankers (his coworkers) from Hell.

But something…  _ changed _ . They’d just had a bit of lunch together, him hardly nibbling while Aziraphale dug in with gusto. He’d made some stupid, albeit witty remark, and Aziraphale had smiled at him with the warmth of the sun, his eyes honest-to-Satan  _ twinkling _ , and Crowley thought,  _ Oh, bloody hell _ .

  
After that, he was a goner. He was certain Aziraphale couldn’t possibly feel the same way, of course, not for a  _ demon _ , at least not beyond the general vague sense of love angels seemed to feel for every living-slash-immortal thing. But that was quite alright. At least, he  _ convinced _ himself it was. After all, it was the best he could possibly hope for. And Aziraphale’s companionship and company was worth more to Crowley than a thousand,  _ million _ commendations from head office. Really, it  _ was _ .

And yet… And  _ yet. _ He still couldn’t help but crave for more, straining toward every hint of affection from the angel--  _ his _ angel-- in the desperate, deluded hope it could ever mean more than the friendship it was.

* * *

Things are different, after the Apocalypse is averted. For starters, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley really has a  _ job _ anymore. Both Upstairs and Below seem to have washed their hands of the two rogue agents, a fact which suits the pair just fine, really. This leaves them with a remarkable amount of free time, especially as they’re beings which neither need to truly  _ work _ to make money nor even sleep (though they’ve both grown to enjoy the latter, a very  _ human _ thing for them to do).

They no longer have to hide their little rendezvous, no longer have to restrict their covert meetings to St. James’s Park or any of the other numerous discreet locations they’ve amassed over the centuries. They go out to dinner-- a _lot_. Aziraphale has always enjoyed the particularly human comfort that is good food, and he seems to dig in with the sort of relish only one who’s nearly been denied food for eternity can display. Crowley eats as well, more sparingly, and with much less enjoyment (although, really, that could be said of quite literally anybody who isn’t Aziraphale). Mostly, he watches Aziraphale eat with unmistakable fondness and hopes his sunglasses obscure the love which is surely visible in his eyes.

They play chess, bickering over the rules when Crowley tries to cheat, which is nearly always. They play Scrabble, and Aziraphale almost  _ always _ wins because he’s spent  _ centuries _ positively devouring literature. Every once in a while, they even go out and play Trivia or, on a few memorable occasions,  _ Bingo. _ (They’d been the oldest in the room by far for the latter, but they certainly hadn’t looked it. They’d won a particularly nice toaster oven and one of those foot spa things, which Aziraphale pretends he doesn’t care about, but which Crowley finds him using on multiple occasions.)

Most of all, they talk. Or rather, they talk about everything but what each of them is positively  _ dying _ to say. They reminisce over past encounters, acts of both tempting and thwarting, historical events which they can’t recall as being either Heaven or Hell’s doing but which might have been purely human inventions. They go to movies, they watch television, they  _ travel _ .

And all the while, they’re both quietly suffering even as they exult in each other’s presence. It’s a curious thing, after all, spending so much time in deep, meaningful conversation with the 6,000-year-old being with which you’re in most certainly unrequited love. It is a particularly exquisite agony.

* * *

In the end, it’s Anathema who brings them both to their senses. They’ve gone to visit Adam, ostensibly as his godparents, which Crowley has convinced his parents they’ve been all along. Mr. and Mrs. Young both have vague, somewhat hazy recollections now of Mr. Anthony Crowley and A. Z. Fell and welcome them both with open arms. Aziraphale casts a fond but mildly disapproving glance in Crowley’s direction when Arthur exclaims that it’s good to see them again, and Crowley beams, unrepentant.

Adam is doing well, all things considered. He’s a decidedly normal fellow, now, for the most part. He tries his best to limit the use of his powers, which are oddly muted now but certainly not fully absent. Most importantly, he never takes control of his friends again. Pepper had threatened to discorporate him, a term she’d learned from Crowley and Aziraphale. (She had only a vague understanding of what it actually meant, but it certainly  _ sounded _ threatening, and it had done the trick. Adam had somewhat sheepishly agreed, and the Them had accepted him as their leader once more.)

Anathema and Newton are together, of course, as they have been since the nearly-Apocalypse. They’re engaged now, and Aziraphale congratulates them profusely. Crowley is suspiciously looking anywhere but at the happy couple when Anathema archly asks when they’re going to tie the knot. Aziraphale sputters and nearly sprays her with the tea he’s just sipped, and he steadfastly  _ avoids _ looking at Crowley while he primly (but blatantly dishonestly) utters, “Why, I’m afraid I don’t know  _ what _ you mean…”

At this point, Crowley does shoot a glance in his direction, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as Anathema rolls her eyes heavenward.

“You’ve got to be joking. You  _ know _ I’m the descendant of a true prophetess, right?” she retorts, arms crossed and a no-nonsense look on her face. Aziraphale’s face is steadily reddening as he tries to stammer out a retort, while Crowley sidles on closer.    
  
“What d’you mean?” the wily serpent inquires, somewhat suspiciously. Anathema snorts.

“You really don’t think Agnes told me  _ all about _ you two?” A beat of silence, before her eyes widen with sudden realization. “ _ Oh. _ You didn’t…” she trails off, pointing at Aziraphale, then Crowley, then back again. “You don’t  _ know _ ?” Now she  _ definitely  _ sounds incredulous. Aziraphale’s face is so red you could undoubtedly fry an egg on it.

“Know  _ what _ , dear girl?” Aziraphale manages faintly, looking somewhere between hopeful and queasy. 

“That I’ve been in bloody love with you since the Gates of Eden,” Crowley finally inserts. He’s kicking his foot at the ground, refusing to look at the love of his literal entire 6,000-year existence on Earth. “Course, I wouldn’t expect an  _ angel _ to have that sort of feeling for a demon like me, so there never seemed to be much point in  _ saying _ anything.”

Aziraphale’s lips part in an almost comical O shape, his eyes shining as his hand finally moves to cover his mouth. It takes a truly monumental effort to manage a quiet, “Since the garden?  _ Really? _ ” He sounds…  _ disbelieving _ . Wary. Though surely Crowley would never be so cruel as to joke about this, it’s the only thing that makes sense. He’s fairly certain Crowley would never  _ allow _ himself to fall in love, divine as it is, and certainly not with one of  _ his _ lot.

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” Anathema inserts. “You two are the biggest idiots I think I’ve ever met.  _ 6,000 years? _ ” she continues incredulously. Crowley’s jaw clenches and he gives a curt nod. Aziraphale truly looks like he’s going to faint, and then… his knees give way, and down he goes. 

Before he can hit the ground, of course,  _ of course _ , Crowley is there to catch him, miraculously quickly (if a demonic miracle, at that). He cradles Aziraphale gingerly, gently,  _ lovingly _ , and manages a bit of a smile down at him.

“Hi, angel.” This time, when he says it, there’s no denying it as the term of endearment it is.

“Oh,” Aziraphale manages, looking utterly astonished, but he’s beginning to quite literally glow with the intensity of his realization that  _ yes _ , Crowley really does love him. 

Anathema quietly decides she ought to give them a bit to work through the backlog of centuries’ worth of sentiment they’ve built up, and the cottage quite conveniently and thoughtfully decides it ought to have a guest room. She’ll give them a few hours (or days) to work out the shape of this new (and yet not so new at all) dynamic before asking them to stand in as the Maid of Honor and Best Man at her and Newton’s wedding. After all, she’s heard Crowley looks positively fetching in a dress.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the first fic I've published in two goddamn years. Thanks, Neil Gaiman, Michael Sheen, and David Tennant for reawakening the fandom beast within me.
> 
> Comments are absolutely adored. Please be gentle with any constructive criticism.
> 
> Many thanks to Jadelyn (https://jadelyn.tumblr.com/) and (Anonymous) for the beta read and suggestions!


End file.
